


Trauma

by hudders



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, M/M, My twist on the scene, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 01:05:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1531880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hudders/pseuds/hudders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John’s whole body tenses and stills, his hand gripping the wooden banister hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. His mind is filled with awful memories from his time in Afghanistan. The deafening cracks of gunshots, the blood curling screams of his comrades as bullets rip through them, the pain on their faces. It’s unbearable."</p><p>Or, a twist of the scene from The Great Game where Sherlock is bored so he shoots the wall, but in this John's PTSD get's the better of him and Sherlock is the only one there to comfort him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trauma

**Author's Note:**

> Not happy with the ending... It was kind of rushed.  
> This is basically a twist of the scene from The Great Game where Sherlock is bored so he shoots the wall, but in this John's PTSD get's the better of him and Sherlock is the only one there to comfort him.  
> There's no established relationship in this but can be interpreted this way, or just as Sherlock and John being very close friends.

John closes the door of 221 Baker Street with a sigh, happy to be home. He gives a smile and a ‘hello’ to Mrs Hudson as he passes her in the hallway and heads up to his and Sherlock’s apartment. When he’s on the second flight of stairs an ear splitting bang ripped through John’s ears. A gunshot.

John’s whole body tenses and stills, his hand gripping the wooden banister hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. His mind is filled with awful memories from his time in Afghanistan. The deafening cracks of gunshots, the blood curling screams of his comrades as bullets rip through them, the pain on their faces. It’s unbearable.

His instinct is to run, to get as far away from whatever is going on up there as possible, but… What if Sherlock’s up there? The consulting detective hadn’t mentioned going out today, what if he was up there now and in danger? What if Sherlock had just been sh-

John’s legs are moving before he can finish that thought, sprinting up the stairs and covering his ears as two more shots are fired. He stops at the doorway to the apartment, spotting Sherlock in his chair. John’s filled with relief when he realises that his friend is okay, but then…

“What the hell are you doing?” he yells, anger washing over him.

“Bored.” Sherlock mutters, staring up at the ceiling.

John takes a step into the room. “What?”

“Bored.” Sherlock says again, livelier this time. He looks to John before jumping up from the chair and raising his arm.

“No-” John tries to plead but it’s too late. Sherlock fires two more shots at the wall and smiles, silently pleased that he hit the smiley face right between the eyes.

His smile drops when he turns his head to look at John, finding his friend on his knees on the floor, his hands pressed against his ears and eyes squeezed shut. He’s shaking, Sherlock can see that from here, and panic washes over him.

“John,” he says, quickly kneeling in front of the man who’s leaning against the door frame, the only thing keeping him upright at the minute.

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak the doctor’s name again but is silenced by the sound of John’s rapid, uneven breathing and the tears trailing down his cheeks. Sherlock’s really fucking panicking now. He can see his friend is in some form of shock, but why? Nothing had happened within those few seconds of John entering the apartment. Only himself shooting at-

The realisation hits him like a slap to the face, and the consulting detective curses himself for being so thoughtless. The gunshots. Of course it would bother John. It would bother any man or woman who had been though the trauma his friend had experienced when he was a soldier.

He bites at the inside of his cheek, reaching out to place two gentle hands on the smaller man’s arms. John jerks violently at the touch, his eyes screwed tightly together as he lets out a small whimper. The sound is literally heart breaking, expressing the pure, genuine fear John is feeling right now and Sherlock has never felt so helpless.

He tries again, gentler this time, placing his hands over John’s as he speaks.

“John, it’s okay. You’re alright.” He whispers, tugging ever so slightly at John’s hands, trying to pry them away from the doctor’s ears so John can hear him.

“No, please don’t..” John breathes out, attempting to cover his ears again but Sherlock holds on, lowering the smaller man’s hands down.

“Listen to me, John.” He speaks softly, lifting a hand to lightly touch the other man’s cheek, brushing away a few tears. “You’re not in that horrible place anymore, it’s all in your head. You’re safe here with me. Just breathe.”

John had initially flinched at the touch, but didn’t move away from it, Sherlock’s words beginning to break down the barrier John’s mind had put up, his voice soothing and sincere. He manages to slowly blink his eyes open, his breathing slowing down a bit as he looks up to the taller man in front of him, the familiar pale blue eyes calming him slightly.

“Sherlock?” He asks, his voice barely a whisper.

The consulting detective nods softly, moving the hand on John’s cheek to side of his neck, rubbing soothing circles against the skin while at the same time checking the doctor’s pulse. He’s frowns slightly, the pulse still quicker than normal, beating harshly under Sherlock’s fingertips.

Sherlock needs to calm John down, the doctor’s irregular breathing and pulse worrying him. He reaches out, moving slowly so he doesn’t frighten the doctor again, and wraps his arms around John. Apart from tensing slightly, the smaller man doesn’t react to Sherlock’s touch and even leans into him. Sherlock lets out a quiet sigh of relief at this and holds John to his chest, surrounding his arms around John, showing his friend that he’s there, supporting him, protecting him.

They stay like that for a few minutes. Tears still fall silently down John’s cheeks as he slumps against the taller man’s chest. His breathing is evening out now and his not shaking as much. Sherlock just holds John close, rubbing small circles on his back as he feels the tension begin to leave John’s body.

It takes about another ten minutes for John’s tears to stop, his body no longer trembling as he curls into Sherlock’s chest, a hand fisted in the detective’s dressing gown.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispers against John’s hair, pulling the smaller man closer. “I should have known not to..”

He trails off when John shakes his head slightly before tucking it under Sherlock’s chin. He’s tired now, the adrenaline from his shock wearing off, and all he wants to do is stay where he is, curled up in Sherlock’s arms. He feels safe.

“You’re tired.” Sherlock states, feeling the weight of John’s body leaning against him. “Do you want to go to bed?”

John shakes his head again, letting his eyes close. Sherlock looks down to John before looking around. “Alright… But we should really move elsewhere.” He points out from where the two are still sitting in the doorway of the apartment, John practically curled up in Sherlock’s lap now.

“Don’t want to get up.” John murmurs into Sherlock’s chest, not wanting the warmth and comfort of Sherlock’s body to leave him. He needs this right now.

Sherlock ignores him though and slides an arm under John’s knees, the other still behind his back, lifting the doctor up and carrying him to the couch. He can feel John’s face burning with embarrassment against his neck and Sherlock smiles fondly as he sets John down.

John shifts on the couch to get comfortable, biting his lip. He’s still a bit shaken and he really needs someone to hold him right now, but Sherlock looks like he has other things to do as he exits the room. John lets out a small sigh, leaning back against the couch. He can’t hold back the pleased grin he gives when Sherlock returns, carrying a large blanket, a cup of tea and a packet of biscuits.

The detective settles down next to John, throwing the blanket over them before handing John his tea.

“Thanks,” John says gratefully, gulping the surprisingly nice (considering Sherlock never makes tea) warm drink down, before curling back into the taller man’s side.

Sherlock welcomes him with open arms, wrapping one around John’s back and pulling him closer. He’s not used to this, Sherlock thinks as he tucks John into his side, finding the warmth of the smaller man’s body surprisingly comforting. He doesn’t usually engage in much physical contact with anyone, but this is…nice. Different, but nice.

“Sherlock,” John mumbles against the detective’s chest.

“Yes John?” he asks softly, resting his chin on the doctor’s head.

“If you ever take my gun again I _will_ kill you.”

And Sherlock laughs at this, merely pulling John closer and kissing his head.


End file.
